Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘She is free.’

‘Free?’

Beatrice Renza continued speaking to Ercole Benelli. ‘She recently has broken up from a long relationship. But it had been ending for some time.’

‘Some time?’

‘Why are you repeating my statements as questions?’

Honestly. This woman. Ercole’s lips grew taut. ‘I don’t understand. Who are you speaking about?’

Though he had an idea. No, he knew exactly.

‘Surely you do. Daniela Canton, of course.’

He began to repeat the name, as a question, but stopped fast, lest he give the brittle woman more ammunition to fire his way. (Besides, as a police officer, he well knew that repeating questions is virtually an admission of guilt: ‘Poaching? Me? How can you say that I’m poaching?’)

Instead, a different inquiry: ‘Why are you telling me this?’

They stood in the laboratory on the ground floor of the Questura. The situation room for the Composer case was presently devoid of Ercole’s colleagues. Only Amelia Sachs, Rhyme and his aide Thom were there — co-conspirators in the Garry Soames matter — so he felt confident in slipping into the lab to ask Beatrice to analyze the evidence they’d collected at the scene of the sexual assault, the roof of Natalia’s apartment. Before he had been able to ask her to do this, however, she had regarded him with a tilted head and, perhaps seeing his lengthy glance toward Daniela, up the hall, had fired away.

She is free...

‘It was a sad story.’ Apparently Beatrice had no interest in responding to his question about why she was sharing Daniela’s story. She pushed her green-framed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. ‘He was a pig,’ she snapped. ‘Her former lover.’

Ercole was offended, for two reasons: One was this prickly woman’s assumption that he had any interest whatsoever in Daniela. The other was his affection for pigs.

Still, interesting: Daniela. Unattached.

‘I hadn’t wondered about her status.’

‘No,’ the lab analyst said, clearly not believing him. Beatrice had a round face, framed by a mass of unruly black hair, presently tucked under a plastic bonnet. She was pretty in a baker’s-daughter sort of way, Ercole reflected, though he knew no bakers, nor the offspring of any. Short of stature, she had a figure that could be described as, well, bustily squat. Her feet pointed outward and she tended to waddle when she walked, making a pronounced shuffling sound if she wore booties. Daniela moved through the halls with the grace of... what? Well, Beatrice had brought up the animal metaphor. Daniela moved with the grace of a lean cheetah. A lean and sexy cheetah.

Beatrice was more a sloth or koala bear.

Then, realizing the comparison was unkind and unfair, Ercole blushed in shame.

Pulling gloves on and taking the evidence bags, Beatrice said, ‘She was with Arci — Arcibaldo — for three years. He was somewhat younger. As you can see, Daniela is thirty-five.’

That much? No, he could not see it, not at all. He was surprised. But he was intrigued that she liked younger men. Ercole being thirty.

‘He wished to be a race car driver but that was a dream, of course; driving is not in his blood.’

Unlike Amelia Sachs’s, he thought ruefully, and reminded himself once more to take the Mégane in for a checkup. The gearbox did not sound healthy.

Beatrice said, ‘He merely dabbled at the sport, Arci did. But he was a handsome man.’

‘ Was? Did he die in an accident?’

‘No. By “was” I mean that he is in the past tense to Daniela. As a handsome driver, however mediocre, he had plenty of opportunities for bunga-bunga.’

The expression, coined by a former Italian prime minister, defied exact definition but, then, a likely meaning could be easily ascribed.

Beatrice looked at the bags and set them on examination tables. She noted the chain-of-evidence cards (his name only, not Amelia’s) and placed her signature below his. ‘He worked for a racing team in Modena. Doing basic things, assisting mechanics, shepherding cars here and there. What happened was that he and Daniela returned from Eurovision—’

‘She went to Eurovision?’

‘That’s right.’ Beatrice gave a dismissing laugh, nearly a snort, and had to reseat her complicated glasses. ‘If you can believe that.’

‘You don’t care for it?’ Ercole asked her, after a thoughtful pause.

‘Who on earth would? It’s juvenile.’

‘ Some feel that way, yes,’ he said quickly.

Based on an Italian festival that started six decades ago, Sanremo, Eurovision was a televised songwriting and — performing contest, countries competing against one another in a theatrical show that was lavishly and gaudily produced. The music was criticized as being bubblegum, with a patriotic topping and political bias. Still, Ercole loved it. He had been six times. He had tickets for the next Grand Final. Two tickets.

Ever hopeful, Ercole Benelli.

‘They returned from the show and found police waiting at his flat. He had been selling fuel-system secrets to a competing team. The charges resulted in a fine only but in Italy, of course, people take driving very seriously. I myself was personally offended.’

‘You like car races?’

She said fervently, ‘I go to Formula One whenever I can. One day I will own a Maserati, the coupe. Used, of course. It will have to be. A Ferrari... well, that is beyond my dreams, on a Police of State salary. Do you attend?’

‘Not often. I can’t find the time.’ In fact, auto racing held no interest for him whatsoever. ‘I enjoyed the movie Rush .’ He couldn’t remember the drivers’ names. And one was Italian.

‘Ah, brilliant, wasn’t it? Niki Lauda, an artist! He drove for Ferrari, of course. I own the DVD. I attend races quite a lot. But they aren’t for everybody. You must wear sound protection, if you go. I take my earmuffs, the ones I use on the police pistol range. They also help me get good seats. People see Police of State printed on the cups and they make way for me.’

For some reason he said, ‘I race pigeons.’

‘The birds?’

He said, ‘Of course the birds.’

What other kind of pigeons were there?

‘I have never heard of that. In any event, though Arci’s offense was not serious, Daniela could hardly have a boyfriend who committed a crime.’

‘And one who was guilty, as well, of bunga-bunga when he was away at races.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Poor thing. She must have been devastated.’

Beatrice clicked her tongue, the way a disapproving nun might do in class. ‘I wouldn’t call her a thing . It’s offensive. But, yes, of course she was upset.’ Beatrice looked into the other room, toward the woman who was a foot taller, seven kilos lighter and had the face of an angelic cheetah. She said kindly, ‘Even the beautiful can suffer from heartbreak. No one is immune. So, I say to you simply that she is available, if you wish to speak to her on the matter.’

Utterly flustered, he blurted, ‘No, no, no. I have no interest in her in that way, none whatsoever. I’m merely curious. It’s my nature. I am curious about everyone. I am curious about people from different regions. People of different ages. People of different races, different colors. I am curious about men, about women, black, white, brown...’ He struggled to find something more to say.

Beatrice helped out: ‘Children, of any complexion?’

Ercole blinked, then realized she was making a joke. He laughed at her dry delivery, though uncomfortably. She gave no response, other than to study the bags.

‘So. What do we have here?’ She was holding the card. ‘“From the smoking station.” What is that?’